The stage: It's shortly before midnight, a few hours of strenuous skiing/trailbreaking/tracking, headlamps are dimming, hearts pounding, eyes blurring, I find myself on the opposite side of Five Lakes Creek from N3 (Ron Driller and Derek Wilson). My headlamp is not sufficient to clearly lighten their locale, probably 50 feet across the noisy creek. They seem busy with something, but I couldn't make it out. The track they were following seemed to end a few yards in front of them on a seep incline, suggesting the lost skier had backed down, and probably crossed the creek to my side.

I deduce their plan was to cross also; I looked around and saw no likely landing spot, the banks being defensively populated by willows, etc. I notice them moving towards the creek, seeming to have arm loads of gear. I notice a flesh color from their knees down, as they trod the few yards to the creek, in almost knee deep snow. I finally realize they are headed barefoot into the creek! I incredulously watch as they carefully--and painlessly--fumble across the creek. Their nonchalance suggests either they've been doing this all night, or they knocked heads together somewhere along their night ski and cerebral synapses have not yet reconnected. Their stoicism continues as they slowly punch up the snowy bank on my side of the creek. Up to their knees in snow, they look around for a place to don their boots. Ensuring most of their marbles are still in the jar, I say to my partner, Mike Kennet, "Let's go, we still haven't found the lost skier".

A minute later I loudly order the lost skier, ahead somewhere in the darkness, "Ernest, STOP!..." (spiced with a few expletive deleteds). A couple minutes later, my shout of "Ernest!" is returned with some unclear mumblings of "I'm Ernest...".